T I M E L I N E
by miss selah
Summary: It is his and his and theirs. [Mohinder Sylar] [Liberties taken with Five Years Gone]


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**T I M E L I N E **

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The room is a map. A map of time, not unlike his own map the world, a tack for each person, a string holding them together. Both hold secrets. Both are _meant _to be secret.

Both have been invaded.

He stalks the room of strings, twisting and turning and bending, trying to get by them without distrubing one scrap of fabric. To do so would be sacrilege, even though he knows that it's just thread and paper. There's something in this room that he can't explain away with science or knowledge. He can't deduce why someone would do this, and he can't imagine the tears that were shed in the process. There is something in here that isn't scientific at all.

It's magic.

"The hell. . ." Parkman is a few feet away, seperated by thread counts to high to number. "It's Janice." He is messing with a paper, removing some vital piece of history. Mohinder looks over the fabric and catches a glimpse of a smiling woman holding a baby in her arms, a man that he doesn't recognize at her back.

A man who is not Matt Parkman.

Mohinder turns his attention back to the timeline, following it from the outer core to the center. There seemed to be two points that every over thread came out of. He peers in to the center; here, he sees a drawing by Isaac Mendez, the deceased owner of the shabby flat, there, a clipping.

Apart from the rest, seemingly unattatched, there is a third centre.

He is entranced by the centre, and wondes why it stands apart. It is a photograph, and he can't see what is on it because it is faced away from him, facing the window facing the city that burned. He reaches out and turns it, and nearly falls down in shock.

Smiling up at him from the black and white polaroid is himself . . . on the arm of Sylar.

_I didn't know it was Sylar then! _Even his thoughts seem to stutter. _He called himself Zane. I didn't love Sylar I loved Zane I loved Sylar Zane Sylar Zane! _His thoughts raced frantically, and he stuffed the picture in his pocket quickly, looking back to Parkman to be sure he wasn't watching. He didn't need to worry though. Parkman was still staring, swearing, at the picture of the woman, child, and man.

Mohinder grabbed the string – _red, the color of blood the color of Sylar –_ and follows it. Smiling face after smiling face greets him. Him at a desk, glasses tipped on his nose that was barely inches away from his paperwork. Zane, smiling and sipping tea on his counter in his boxer. The two of them in bed, Zane's arm off screen taking the picture.

The pictures here held kisses and smiles and soft sighs. Mohinder remembers them all, detail for vivid detail. He remembers and it makes him want to cry, to die, to scrub his skin until his flesh falls off.

Then he sees it. The clipping.

The papers had said that Sylar had been the one who destroyed New York. . . that it had been Sylar that had caused a nation to fall. But Mohinder knew better. He knew because he had been on the phone with him when the blast happened, listening to Sylar's pleading, what he thought had been lies, and Sylar begged over and over and over for Mohinder to leave New York that second, to find shelter. To _hide. _

Mohinder thought he understood Sylar. But Sylar keeps proving him wrong every with every step he takes.

The timeline goes farther, even though Mohinder had thought that he died that day. He had kept searching, because they had never found a trace of him, but deep inside, Mohinder had always known that he didn't stay up, night after sleepless night, finding shelter in only Nathan Petrelli's arms, that Sylar, no matter how invincible he seemed, could have never survived that.

The next picture doesn't have Sylar, but Nathan.

Nathan reminds him of Sylar, which is why he was attracted to him in the first place. Nathan came to him, in those dark few days after the bomb, and had held out his hand and smiled. Mohinder, who hadn't seen the light of day in too long to remember because he had been too cooped up in his dinky little flat, trying to unwork a genome, had squinted. He was scared it was Sylar – terrified it wasn't – and had accepted his hand and helped to get him in to the White House. Mohinder would do anything for Nathan, because Nathan seems lost, confused, and he kisses just the same as Zane as Sylar. Mohinder loves Nathan just the same as Sylar as Zane.

Mohinder sees the next picture and smiles – it's him, in a suit that's too tight and makes him look too American, at a desk, glasses tipped on his nose that was barely inches away from his paperwork. He's in the Oval Office this time, instead of a shabby apartment, but it's practically the same. The next photo, Nathan in his boxers at Mohinder's penthouse, smiling and sipping tea on his counter. The next, one that Mohinder thought that Nathan had kept; The two of them in bed, Nathan's arm off screen taking the picture.

Mohinder looks at his collection of photographs, horrified. The rooms are nicer, and the bed sheets are satin instead of worn cotton, but it's practically the same.

Not practically. _Exactly_.

"Suresh?"

Mohinder stuffs the photos in his pocket, not having to fake his shock.

"What are you doing?"

Mohinder tries to smile, but doesn't. That doesn't matter though, because these people are used to seeing him not smile.

"I think it's a timeline." Mohinder tells him. "And look there –" He leads him away, away from his dark past. Away from his shame.

Away from his only secret.

"There seem to be two centres."

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End file.
